If looks could kill.....

Don't be fooled.  That is a glare of total and utter hate.

.....I would be dead.  If an autopsy were to be preformed from whatever remotely recognizable heap of torn flesh that the state medical examiner could scrape off the ground, it would have to be put into one of those triple-walled heavy-duty trash bags and the fat, muscle, grizzle and tissue that was once my body would be littered with the hay, grain and goat shit from whence I met my demise.

But lucky for me, I was able to convince Pau to help prevent the above gruesome scenario.

So what could have transpired that something so horrible could have happened, you ask?

Herman's head gear fell off....and had to be put BACK on.

Herman is the Alpha Boer buck goat.  With horns.  And the goat fence is constructed from cattle panels. We chose cattle panels because they are very sturdy, movable, re-usable....and, well, we had them.  The only downside to using the panels is that if one has a horned goat, that goat will stick it's head through those panels and not be able to un-stick it, therefore requiring assistance from the goatkeeper (that wasn't supposed to have any horned goats on the property in the first place) in order to release his head.

To remedy this situation, one attaches a pvc pipe across Herman's head with copious amounts of duct tape thusly ensuring that he can not get his noggin through the squares in the panels.  This worked like a charm and I was delighted to NOT have to go out there fifteen times a day to get him out.  Unfortunately the duct tape eventually gets rubbed off and we're back to square one with him sticking his head through the panels. I think he rubbed his last pvc & duct-tape noggin contraption off almost two months ago.  So every day since then, several times a day, we've been having to get the dickhead's skull out from the cattle panels.  One would think that a goat, even a stupid goat, would eventually figure out that if he shoves his head through something and gets stuck EVERY SINGLE TIME, that maybe, just maybe, the urge to shove your head through the fence would subside.  But no.  I believe Herman's sole purpose on this earthly plane is to test my resolve and to teach me to contain the disturbingly violent urges which swim like slippery, needle-toothed eels through the murky waters of my subconscious.

Every subsequent time that Herman's headgear needs re-attaching, it becomes more and more difficult. The time before last we took turns straddling Herman and holding his horns while the other wrapped (and wrapped, and wrapped) the duct tape over the pvc pipe and horns.  The last time neither or us were able to get on Herman and by brute strength and luck alone we were somehow able to manage the task.  Each time Herman is stronger.  And meaner.  And hating us more and more.  And he is on to us.  Paul was almost castrated by Herman's swinging horns the last time we were in there.   A pissed off buck goat with pointy horns at groin level is something every man should rightfully fear.

So this time we had a plan.  Actually, Plan A was to sucker a friend or three into coming by and helping, but nobody was that stupid.  So plan B was for us to wait (the whole fifteen seconds) for Herman to get his head stuck (again) into the fence, incapacitate him, THEN put the headgear on.

Plan B actually worked.  And no one was disemboweled or gored.  My jacket and barn chore pants however, reek like, well, a buck goat in all his sticky-piss glory.  Once Herman was stuck, Paul went into the pen and tied Herman's front and back legs and we yanked his head out of the fence.

Let me tell you that I had to use every last ounce of willpower to not give Herman a few good swift kicks to the backside while he was down.  Oh, how I wanted to lay into him.  I'm telling you, if OhioFarmGirl lived anywhere near me I would have invited her over for tea and biscuits and we would have had ringside seats when she released The Dog Horde on Herman's tied-up ass and I would have been grinning from ear to ear as the flesh was torn from his body in a blur of bright white gnashing and crushing canine teeth.  I'd be standing up and cheering on her Fighting Uruk-Hai as the blood from my most hated goat spattered across my face.  I'd wipe the still warm and sticky blood from my cheek and taste the iron-rich victory on my tongue.

Wow.  Got a little carried away there.  Uh hugh.  Anyways........where was I?

Oh.  Paul had Herman tied up and on his side.  I sat on top of the asshole (the goat, not Paul) and grabbed his beard (the goat's, not Paul's) to keep his head still while he wrapped the pipe over his horns.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't purposely put all my weight on Herman (maybe even bouncing once or twice for the full "Ooomph" effect coming out of dickheadgoat's lungs).  I'd also be lying if I said that I didn't feel sorry for Herman.  For an eighth of a second.  Because as soon as I did feel a pang of pity for the peckerhead, he started whipping his head around to BITE us.  Yes.  He was trying to bite us now.  Eventually we ran out of duct tape on the roll and had to make our way out of the pen.  Paul untied Herman's feet while I was still on top of him (which, now that I think about it, probably wasn't the best of ideas) and on the count of  "Three!" I jumped off and ran for the gate, leaving Paul behind to fend for himself (serves him right, why exactly, was it ME on top of the goat in the first place???)

Once we were out and Herman was up, he immediately started rearing and taking his frustrations out on the nearest tree.  He also started trying to rub the headgear off so gawd only knows if it's still on him now.  I hope so, because I am not looking forward to doing this again anytime soon.

I will, however, enjoy NOT having to get his stupid head out of the fence in the middle of the freezing night.